A Transatlantic Tunnel, Hurrah! by Harry Harrison Read Free Book Online Page B

manner, a style that guaranteed the maximum publicity for the trip.
    The maiden voyage of the flying ship was opportunity knocking.
    Op-portunity that was admitted even be-fore she rapped, although it meant that Gus had to pack a fortnight’s work into five days. It was done, he was ready, the voyage was at hand. He sealed his case and opened the compartment door and joined the other passengers on the platform. There were not many and he held back so they could go ahead to the pop of flashbulbs and the click of the press cameras. Not all had come by train; the barrier that held back the swelling crowd was opened to admit two automobiles, high, black, pon-derous Rolls-Royces. As it began to close behind them there was an im-perious blast of a steam whistle from the street beyond and it hurriedly opened again to admit the extended form of a Skoda Steamer, a vehicle much favored by European royalty. It had six wheels, the rear driving pair almost twice the size of the two others, as well as a cabin to the rear that housed the engine and the sto-ker. It emitted a plume of steam again as its whistle sounded and it eased silently by trailing a faint cloud of smoke, the stately figures inside framed by the silver mounted window frames looking neither to right nor left. This was indeed a day to be remembered.
    Further along the platform the station café was open, frequented apparently only by the press since the passengers appeared to be going directly aboard. Gus had a won-derfully cooling pint of bitter before he was recognized and collared by the gentlemen of the fourth estate. He talked with them easily and an-swered their questions about the tun-nel frankly. Everything was fine, just fine, on schedule and forging ahead. The tunnel would be built, have no fear. They honored his request not to be photographed with the glass in his hand, since teetotal money was among the funds subscribed for the tunnel, and they accepted with thanks his offer of a round for all of them. The voyage was having an auspicious start.
    When he emerged into the sun-light again the gangplank was clear and the passengers all boarded. Gus in turn climbed to the foredeck and accepted the salute of the ship’s offi-cer waiting there, a salute that hesi-tated and stopped halfway up from the sharply creased uniform leg to the shining billed cap and turned suddenly into an outstretched hand ready to clasp his.
    “Hawkeye Washington—that is you!”
    The clock of time rolled back in that instant and Gus was once more in digs at Edinburgh, in class, facing the driving rain while walking up Prince’s Street. Hawkeye—legendary hero of a popular novel whose name was hung on most students from the American colonies. He smiled broadly and took the proffered hand and pressed it strongly.
    “Alec, and that is you, isn’t it, hid-ing behind all that R.A.F.
    moustache? Alec Durell.”
    “None other, Hawkeye, none other. And it was earned the hard way I must say,” touching the great sweep of the thing with his knuckle as he spoke of it. “Donkey’s years in the RAF, then Fleet Air Arm, finally to Cunard when they swept the ser-vices for our best flying people.”
    “Still shy I see?”
    “As ever. Lovely to have you aboard. Look, come on to the bridge and meet the boys. I’m first engineer. They’re a good lot. All ex-services, only place the company could find the fliers to handle an ark like this. Not a real company man in the pack if you don’t count the purser and he isn’t allowed on the bridge.”
    They went aft but bypassed the passenger entrance just below the high windows of the bridge and en-tered through a small doorway in the hull marked CREW ONLY. This led to an ample chamber, windowed to the sides and front and filled with in-struments and controls. The helms-man was seated the farthest forward, with the captain and the first officer to his right and left. To the rear were the open doors of the small cubicles of the radio operator and the